


Your Butler's Bleeding, Batman

by Alexicon



Series: dc works [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5807449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexicon/pseuds/Alexicon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Alfred was still in the car.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Butler's Bleeding, Batman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllumetteRouge (RedRaidingHood)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRaidingHood/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Dead Hearts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5817079) by [AllumetteRouge (RedRaidingHood)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRaidingHood/pseuds/AllumetteRouge). 



Bruce would never get there in time. He had heard the man report in to his boss only a few seconds ago and it would take him approximately forty more seconds to get outside -- fifty-five if there was a crowd.

Bruce normally wouldn’t rush so if he were here alone. He didn’t care about the car, and he could deal with the assassin waiting in the backseat if the man tried to kill Bruce. There was just one problem.

Alfred was still in the car.

Bruce got to the car quickly (there wasn’t a crowd, he’d made it in twenty-nine seconds) but he was too late. The assassin was already in the backseat of the car.

The Bugatti was shaking violently as Bruce raced toward it, shocks whining with the motion. The windows were tinted, but Bruce could barely discern shapes moving in the front seat.

Good. Alfred was still alive, and putting up a fight by the looks of it.

Bruce wrenched the back door open and yanked the assassin out by his collar. There weren’t any witnesses around to see -- this was the least popular spot on Wayne Enterprises property, and the security was as close to nonexistent as it could get in this area of Gotham City. He knocked the man out with a strong haymaker to the side of his head, which would be easily excused by any moderately experienced onlookers as an untrained man’s attack.

Then he looked to Alfred. And Alfred had a knife sticking out of his neck.

Bruce rushed back into the car and watched, horrified, in the rearview mirror as Alfred’s fingers probed the wound.

Alfred grimaced and pulled the knife from the side of his neck, ignoring Bruce’s protests. “This isn’t the way I would have liked you to find out, sir,” he said, in his usual calm tones. Alfred was bleeding profusely for only a moment before he held up a pristine white handkerchief to stop the fountain of blood spurting from his carotid artery.

“Alfred,” was all Bruce could say. At worst, Alfred would die in about three minutes, fewer still if Alfred insisted on moving around.

Bruce had always thought he would die before Alfred.

Alfred chuckled, looking at the unconscious man with an inexplicably fond look on his face. “Well done, sir,” he praised, wincing slightly as he turned his head to Bruce.

“ _Alfred_ ,” Bruce said again, utterly helpless. He reached out, pressing the handkerchief more firmly to Alfred’s neck.

“What’s the matter, sir?”

“You’re _dying_ ,” Bruce got out.

“No, I’m not.”

“You were stabbed in the carotid, Alfred.”

“Ah. Yes.” Alfred cleared his throat. “Do you remember the occasion with the dinosaurs, sir?”

“Which one?” Bruce asked.

“The _venomous_ dinosaurs, in particular,” Alfred replied. “I tested the venom for you and found it was fatal at first touch. Well, I happened to run the tests on the venom only after I had touched it by mistake.”

“Those deaths were near instant.”

“Yes, my heart stopped. It was all very dramatic,” said Alfred. “Frankly, it was wasteful to run the tests when I already knew that the venom was fatal, but I had the notion you’d be _unsettled_ by the occurrence, sir, so I kept it under wraps, so to speak.”

“What are you saying, Alfred?” Bruce asked quietly, shutting the door. Someone else could deal with the assassin.

Alfred gave him a thin smile. “I’m saying that I cannot die, Master Bruce.”

“You can’t die,” Bruce repeated.

“I believe we should continue this conversation at home, sir,” Alfred said, nodding toward the man now stirring on the asphalt.

“Of course, Alfred,” said Bruce automatically, his mind whirring.

The ride to Wayne Manor was spent in silence, Alfred and Bruce occasionally exchanging worried looks. The handkerchief, still held to Alfred’s neck by his right hand, was fully red by the time they pulled into the driveway.

“We’ll go in through the kitchen,” Alfred decreed. “Less mess that way.”

“And there’s a first-aid kit in the cabinet by the door,” Bruce reminded him.

Alfred didn’t roll his eyes -- he was as poised as ever -- but he did lift them to the sky for a long moment. “You’re aware that if I were to die, I would have done so by now,” he pointed out dryly.

Bruce didn’t answer; he stared at Alfred through the rearview mirror until Alfred let out a slow breath through his nose.

“Very well, sir, if you insist upon wasting materials, I won’t stop you.”

“Thank you,” said Bruce, almost happy to have achieved that little victory.

The bleeding had almost stopped when Bruce peeled the handkerchief away. He cleaned and bandaged the wound carefully.

The tape and little ball of gauze looked unassuming above the red-stained fabric of Alfred’s shirt.

“Nothing to worry about, Master Bruce, it’ll be gone by tomorrow,” Alfred said cheerily.

“Have you tested this?” demanded Bruce, suspicious.

“Of course I have,” Alfred replied. “Not intentionally, you understand, but things happen.”

“Apparently more than I had thought,” Bruce muttered. “Do you want me to clean your shirt?”

“I can manage that, sir,” said Alfred, his face amused. “That is my specialty, if you’ll recall.”

Bruce nodded and turned away, trying not to remember the first time he had attempted to remove blood from his own clothing. There had been holes everywhere. Bruce suspected that Alfred had laughed himself sick as soon as he was out of earshot.

Alfred smiled fondly and touched Bruce’s shoulder, forcing Bruce to look at him again. “It’s all right, Master Bruce. I’m alive.”

“And you will be for a while,” said Bruce. “What are your plans?”

Alfred laughed. “I’ll be here. I’m not leaving just because you found out, sir. It wasn’t a secret.”

“It was, or you would have told me.”

“Well, yes, but it wasn’t _that_ kind of secret.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows, but said, “Whatever you say, Alfred.”

“And rightfully so,” Alfred replied smugly.

Bruce eyed him for a moment, then sighed. “I want to know what your plans are after I die.”

Alfred’s face went tight, but then all the tension melted off his face, replaced by a weary smile.

“I plan to help Batman in his endeavors.”

“What do you mean?” asked Bruce, confused.

“There will be a Batman long after you are gone, Master Bruce,” said Alfred, smiling brighter now. “And I shall always be around to help him.”

Bruce found himself at a loss for words. Finally, he said, “Yes, Alfred,” and that was that.

And Alfred drew him into a tight, desperate hug.

**Author's Note:**

> Alfred can't die, everyone would cry. Especially me.
> 
> This was supposed to be more of a fluffy fix-it but Bruce made everything sadder. Oops.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://lexiconallie.tumblr.com)!


End file.
